


The Courtship Rituals of Humans

by Rainbowcat



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 11:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14810358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowcat/pseuds/Rainbowcat
Summary: Vision has the good grace to look ashamed. He plucks – well, something – out of the pan with his bare fingers; it leaves the vibranium skin unburned. “I was trying to make pancakes.”In which Vision tries to be seductive, and Wanda is oblivious.Post-Captain America: Civil War.





	The Courtship Rituals of Humans

The first time he tries to make pancakes, Vision burns them to a crisp.

Wanda’s attracted to the kitchen by the unmistakable smell of smoke, sweet and ashy, the same that fills her mouth every time she uses her powers. But she knows it wasn’t her doing – this time, at least – since up until now she’d been lying on her bed, reading.

She heads into the kitchen to catch sight of Vision, who’s in full battle regalia and staring down the pan like it’s Ultron. A dark cloud is hovering ominously above the stove.

“Begone,” Vision says to the smoke, trying to dispel it with his hand. Wanda’s not sure she’s ever seen a less competent chef.

“You should try this,” she advises, flipping on the range hood. 

The air starts to clear a little bit, but it’s too late, and the fire alarm starts shrieking. “Please put out the fire,” FRIDAY suggests in her polite Irish lilt.

“Fuck,” Vision says, a word Wanda hadn’t been sure he was quite capable of. He fixates on the smoke detector; a second later, the Mind Stone’s incinerated it into dust. The alarm stops.

Laughter doubles her over. She looks up to see Vision’s smile, pleased and perplexed all at once.

“Children,” she hears Tony Stark say from somewhere behind them. They turn. “More property damage, really?”

Vision has the good grace to look ashamed. He plucks – well, something – out of the pan with his bare fingers; it leaves the vibranium skin unburned. “I was trying to make pancakes.”

The blackened mess in his hands falls apart. Wanda’s mildly impressed that something so charred on the outside could have remained perfectly raw in the middle. There’s a small lake of oil in the pan, the bottom of which is now also solidly brown.

“Are you gonna pay for that?” Tony admonishes, nodding at the smoldering remains of the smoke detector.

“I – yes, of course-”

“Kidding.” Tony sticks his finger into the bowl of pancake batter and licks it. “You don’t have any money.”

Vision bows his head again.

“Alright, sit down, you sad, tiny infants. Guess Papa’s gotta make you some breakfast.” Tony considers the batter, then rummages around in the pantry and surfaces with an open bag of mini chocolate chips. He upends the entire thing into the bowl.

“You love it,” Wanda says. “Taking care of us, I mean.”

Tony stirs the batter with single-minded forcefulness. “For the record, that mind-reading shtick?” he says, pointing the dripping spoon at her accusingly, “is not fair.”

Wanda just smiles and goes to put on the kettle for tea.

As it turns out, the batter was salvageable after all, and the pancakes Tony doles out onto three plates are above average. Wanda observes Vision eating with some studied interest. “But where does it all – go?”

Tony and Vision open their mouths at the same time to answer her.

“Never mind,” she says hastily. “I don’t actually want to know.”

“So. Pancakes?” Tony asks.

Vision shrugs. He twirls his fork in his hand; Wanda’s fascinated by the little traces of humanity that he’s managed to pick up in his short life. “I was researching. You’re supposed to make sweet things to show affection.”

Wanda registers Tony’s surprise. It tastes crisp, like ice water in a crystal glass. “Affection, huh?” He gives Wanda a calculating once-over. “Don’t worry. He’s _fully_ functional.”

“That I am,” Vision says proudly.

Tony claps him on the shoulder as he gets up. “Not what I meant, big guy.” Wanda and Vision look at him in identical confusion. Tony sighs. “You two. Pure as the driven snow, huh? Anyway, Romeo, I’d try flowers next.”

*

It doesn’t take long for said flowers to show up. Well… sort of.

The first thing Wanda sees when she enters her room is the massive tangle of roots on her bed, because it’s sort of hard to miss. Clumps of dirt are still hanging to the ends, spilling dusty little clouds off of the edge of the duvet. Because of this, it takes Wanda a second to notice the roses. Most of them are resting on her pillows in full bloom, a lovely, delicate shade of pink.

There’s a rose bush napping on her queen-sized mattress. Well, weirder things have happened.

“Oh, Viz,” Wanda sighs as the culprit in question materializes through the wall. “Did you raid somebody’s garden?”

“Mrs. Abernathy said she’d give it to me for free, because she’s getting too old to take care of all those plants,” Vision says, and he’s actually pouting. “You know, that lovely woman from down the street.” Wanda doesn’t. “I routed her 2500 dollars from Tony’s bank account as a thank you.”

Wanda huffs out a laugh, startled by how genuine her pleasure is. “You ever give someone flowers before?”

“I am just over one year old,” says Vision, sounding wounded. “No. I haven’t.”

Wanda has never received any flowers before, either. The thought sobers her.

She approaches the bed to take a closer look. The roses really are lovely, if not unconventionally presented. Wanda reaches out to cup one of the blossoms in her fingers. The petals curl in response to her touch, and there’s a faint, sweet whisper that stirs in the back of her mind.

“Come on,” Wanda says. She realizes she’s smiling. “Let’s go plant this.”

 

They end up on the rooftop garden of the New Avengers Facility. Wanda’s not too sure who maintains it; the plants are carefully pruned and the soil is damp to the touch, but when she opens the little toolshed in the corner, everything looks brand new. She finds a trowel, picks out a reasonably empty space, and gets to work.

“You could do this in seconds with your mind, you know,” Vision says as he watches her dig. He’s carrying the rose bush in his arms, and the sprawling branches are obscuring his face. She reaches for the plant and he hands it over, as delicately as if he’s passing her a newborn child.

She sets the roots into the ground. “I don’t like using my powers,” she says after a while. 

Vision sits down by where she’s kneeling. “Too draining?”

Wanda shakes her head. “The opposite.” She doesn’t look at him as she says this, letting her hair swing in front of her face like a curtain. “The more I do it, the more alive I feel. And… it scares me.”

Vision doesn’t say anything, and she continues to work, patting soil into place around the crown. They sit in silence as the sunlight dies out and the shadows lengthen. 

“We had a beautiful rose garden in Sokovia,” she says eventually. “Pink roses, red, yellow. Some hybrids, too.” She can feel Vision staring at her with earnest attention. “My grandfather bred them. No one grew roses quite like he did. Pietro didn’t care much for plants, but I spent hours in that garden, listening to my grandpapa’s stories and watching him work with the roses. My favorites were the red and white ones. Just like a painting. He used to say they looked just like me, this pale child with red, red hair.”

“He’s…” Vision trails off.

“Dead now, like everyone else.” Wanda finishes setting the bush into place. It hurts to talk about her family, as always, but the pain is distant now, somewhere too deep and too remote for tears. In this garden, alight with the gold of sunset and surrounded by all that’s blooming, she feels somehow beyond death.

He doesn’t answer, but instead reaches out with one steady finger and brushes dirt from her cheek.

Wanda looks back down and puts one hand on the ground, right by the stem. She closes her eyes, feels the sunlight and the echo of Vision’s touch, and stretches a careful tendril of energy into the ground. “This,” she murmurs. “This is what I want to do, always. Not manipulation, not destruction, but… creation.” She feels it now, the life coursing through the roots, soaking up water and nutrients from the soil. “Roses have a reputation for being difficult. But,” she says, opening her eyes, “they just need a little care.” And she sighs, sensing now the plant responding to her mind, absorbing the piece of her she’s gifted it forever.

Vision remains wordless. It’s something she appreciates about him, that he doesn’t force smalltalk with her just because he lacks the words. Everyone else does it, Steve, even Clint, though they should know what it’s like to be an outsider. They stand, and she takes his arm as they head back downstairs.

*

“Let’s watch a movie,” Vision declares the following evening.

Wanda flops down onto the grandiose leather couch in the living room. “Okay.”

Vision sits gingerly next to her and reaches for the remote. “I thought you may enjoy a romantic film.”

She’s intrigued now, wondering what non-humans consider romantic. “Okay?”

The screen turns on; it seems Vision had selected a title ahead of time. He hits ‘play’ and Wanda freezes.

“Are… are you sure about this, Viz?”

“Hm?” Vision turns to her, raising a polite eyebrow. She brushes lightly over his thoughts, but no, this isn’t his idea of an elaborate prank. Actually, Wanda doesn’t think he’s got much of a sense of irony.

She’s torn between amusement and mortification, but then remembers where she is and who, exactly, shares this living space with her, and is seized by sudden horror. “Oh my God. We need to turn this off. Right now.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, concerned. 

Wanda lunges for the remote, but it’s too late. Tony Stark has appeared at the threshold of the door, looking for all the world like the cat that got the cream. “My, my. FRIDAY told me someone was watching _Fifty Shades of Grey_ , and I’m a little hurt I wasn’t invited.”

Wanda buries her face in her hands.

“It’s a romantic comedy,” Vision explains slowly, as if Tony’s unfamiliar.

Tony’s face cycles through a complicated series of emotions. Underneath the surface, Wanda can feel explosive, wicked delight. It tastes sweet as apple pie. “It sure is,” Tony agrees, his voice shaking as he struggles to repress his glee.

Wanda sighs and conjures up a tiny ball of energy. Tony doesn’t even protest as it hits him squarely in the ribs and sends him careening back into his room. She can hear him cackling for the next fifteen minutes.

 

She doesn’t really know why, but they watch the movie anyway, sitting several feet apart on Tony’s pretentious couch. Wanda refrains from looking anywhere but the screen. A while into the movie, Vision stills and does the same.

Only when the credits roll does she steal a glance at him. Vision is completely motionless. She hadn’t thought it possible for an android with red-colored skin to blush; now she finds this assumption thoroughly disproven. His thoughts are awash in embarrassment, sour as lemons. “I have to go,” Vision says simply, and instead of walking out the door as they always make him do, vanishes into the couch cushions.

*

Wanda had come back to the New Avengers Facility after her imprisonment in the Raft. Not straightaway; she stayed with Steve Rogers for a while, but after Lagos, following his lead and training with him felt wrong. Not that she had any particular desire to abide by or even acknowledge the Accords instead, but for the time being, it was the best arrangement she could think of.

“I stay here as long as you don’t try to contain me,” she’d threatened Tony in a low voice, grabbing his collar with both fists.

“That’s a 3000-dollar suit you’re wrinkling,” he responded drily, but she could tell there was no real annoyance behind it. “You can come and go, but only with supervision. SuperVision, if you will.”

She shook him. “I don’t care for your jokes, Iron Man. No supervision.”

For a while, it had seemed that Tony ignored this, given how often Vision followed her on her excursions. Wanda decided to test the theory by disappearing to Scotland for three months; nobody chased her. So upon her return, she drew the conclusion that Vision just particularly enjoyed grocery shopping with her and jogging with her and reading books on the lawn with her.

All of which led to moments like today, when she’s standing in Whole Foods deliberating between firm and extra-firm tofu. Vision comes up to her with a fistful of spice jars. “It’s paprika,” he says, beaming with satisfaction.

“Indeed,” says Wanda. She decides on the extra-firm. “We probably don’t need eight, though.”

Vision’s face falls.

She sighs. “Alright, fine. Let’s get all of it in case of emergency.”

He lights up again. Vision’s got an inexplicable love for grocery shopping, just as he’s taken to cooking and baking these past few months. After the pancakes, he tried brownies, then cheesecake (which generated more smoke than the pancakes had), and then he had finally made a passable batch of chocolate chip cookies.

“I’m not sure why making food is so difficult for you,” Tony snarked at him, despite having eaten half the plate of cookies. “Isn’t it just following directions?”

“It’s an art form,” Vision had said patiently. “It requires a certain _je ne sais quoi_.”

“Did you just say _je ne sais quoi_?”

“Fantastic,” Vision’s saying now, adding a bunch of bananas to the shopping cart. “Look at these. These are really nice.”

“You sure love food for someone who doesn’t eat a lot of food,” Wanda says as they check out. They’re actually pretty good bananas.

He smiles at her. They load up the groceries into the car, and it’s so domestic Wanda’s chest aches. It’s like an out-of-body experience: this is her borrowed life, the one where there isn’t anything different about her and she’s got a family and the person clambering into the driver’s seat is a human male, not an android.

Vision turns the keys in the ignition. It’s a self-driving car, actually, but driving is another one of his oddly human indulgences. He puts his hand on the gearshift and takes a deep breath. Wanda’s startled by the sudden rush of nerves that overtake his thoughts; they taste acidic, like vinegar. 

“Would you like to get some coffee?”

“Coffee?” Wanda looks over at him. In his sweater vest and cargo pants, which Tony and Rhodey had spent a solid twenty minutes roasting him for, it’s hard to tell that he’s essentially a glorified killing machine. “We just bought some.”

“No, out, in a café, with me,” Vision explains in a rush.

Wanda’s not sure why this should terrify him so much, but she puts her hand over his and sends a warm, reassuring wave into his mind. “Okay. Let’s go do that.”

 

They end up in Starbucks, and Vision stares up at the board with such intense focus that Wanda begins to worry he’ll pop a circuit somewhere and start to malfunction. The baristas mutter among themselves, but this store’s proximity to the New Avengers Facility means they’ve probably seen weirder things. Wanda hasn’t been around for long, but she’s heard tales of Avengers like Thor, who’d once walked into a coffee shop and ordered “everything.” Meanwhile, in the brief time she spent with Scott Lang, he confided to her that he enjoyed shrinking himself and eating crumbs off of vacant tabletops until he was stuffed.

“Crumbs are… next-level, man,” Scott had said, eyes shining.

“I would like a tall caramel macchiato, please,” Vision says gravely, and turns to Wanda. “And what my friend is having.”

“Uh,” says Wanda. “An espresso. Please.”

“Can I get a name for that order?” asks the barista, looking like he’s clearly not paid enough for this job.

“It’s The Vision. Thank you.”

They take a seat. Wanda drums her fingers on the table and tries to ignore how Vision’s scrutiny has been redirected to her face. She reaches a little toward his mind, but uncharacteristically, he’s got walls up. She doesn’t pry.

They sit in awkward silence. 

“Division,” the barista calls out.

Vision doesn’t move. Wanda prods him with her foot and he startles. “That’s you.”

“That isn’t my name,” Vision points out.

Wanda rolls her eyes and goes to pick up their drinks.

“They spelled it wrong,” Vision says with a frown, which only deepens when she laughs. He takes off the lid and swallows half the coffee in three large gulps.

Wanda blows pointedly on her own espresso. “You’ve got a lot to learn about being human, babe.” The term of endearment slips out; she’s not quite sure where it came from.

 _Babe_ , she sees Vision mouthing to himself, and the next time he raises the cup to his mouth, the drink he takes is the tiniest of sips. He looks so anxious about doing it right that she can’t help but smile at him, and after a moment, he returns it.

 

When they get home and Vision retires to go do whatever he does, Wanda corners Tony and asks him if it’s possible for Vision to glitch.

Tony bites the inside of his cheek. “No, but tell me _everything_.”

She slaps at his shoulder and retreats to her own room.

*

The following day, Wanda finds another gift in her room. It’s much less conspicuous than a rose bush, and so old-fashioned it takes Wanda a second to remember how to work it. The tape in the Walkman simply says MIXTAPE, in what she recognizes as Vision’s writing. (Unable to have unique handwriting the way humans do, he’d decided to invent his own computer font and then copyright it under the Stark Industries name, to Tony’s lengthy gripes about legal fees and paperwork headaches.)

Despite the cooking and shopping and driving, Vision’s never displayed any curiosity towards music. Wanda had imagined it was one of those human pursuits that remained beyond him. But if nothing else, he’s been spending this past week doing his best to take her by surprise.

She slips on the headphones, lies down on her bed, and hits play.

Vision’s taste is eclectic, to say the least. She’s familiar with a minority of the songs; there’s the Beatles, and Beyoncé, and “Seasons of Love” from _Rent_. There’s a Sokovian pop tune that she recognizes from years ago, before the riots and the war; the nostalgia hits her squarely in the chest and leaves her breathless for a minute. For the most part, though, the songs are new to her. One track sounds like Tibetan monk chants. Another is classical music she’s never heard. One is simply five minutes of birdsong, followed by heavy metal so aggressive she removes the headphones and leaves them on her chest for the duration of the song.

The tape ends gently enough, though. She doesn’t know the last song, either; it sounds like a small church choir, singing quietly and without words. The harmonies weave together and apart in what she imagines to be a giant cathedral of stone. It goes on for fifteen minutes, maybe longer. Wanda closes her eyes and drifts off, the music echoing in her ears.

When she wakes, the tape has stopped and Vision is sitting on the corner of her bed. She lifts the headphones and sits up.

Vision looks at her, unblinking. She takes a moment, as always, to feel his presence. It’s markedly different from everyone else: Tony, Clint, Natasha, the rest of the Avengers, they all feel hot to the touch, their thoughts consumed first and foremost by themselves. Even Steve Rogers, America’s golden child, has an egocentric view of the world. Pietro had thought about her, of course, but his thoughts were always colored by _we, us, together_. Vision is the first and only person she knows whose thoughts, when she first touches them, read _you_. It’s not that he doesn’t have a sense of self; it’s that he thinks of her first. Feeling him is cooling, like jumping into a river on a hot summer’s day.

“Wanda,” he says. She shifts herself so that they’re sitting side-by-side. There’s a palpable change in the air between them, which she realizes she feels as a human, with her normal body (whatever that may be, she doesn’t really know), and not as a mutant.

She says nothing.

“I really like you, Wanda.” Vision glances down at his hands for a moment, then looks back into her eyes. She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Her mouth is filled with tastes both familiar and not: the sweetness of cotton candy, the brininess of seawater, the metallic tang of blood. Still, she says nothing, keeping her lips clamped around these tastes so precious to her.

He takes a breath, and continues softly. “You are kind, and gentle, and so very vulnerable. Your vulnerability – I see it every day in your strength and your fierceness, your relentlessness. Before I knew you, I thought all parts of me were under my own control, even if they were unknown to me. But you opened my eyes and… you made me believe. In what, I’m not sure. A higher power, or miracles, or faith in the survival of humanity.” 

Vision pauses. 

“They don’t really know what to make of me.” Without breaking eye contact, he waves at the rest of the compound. “Everyone else, they… they respect me, they value me. Or they fear me. But you’re the only one who sees me as I am.”

He reaches out and puts his hand over hers, interlacing their fingers. When her breath hitches, he picks up her hand and presses it to his chest. “I don’t know what I am,” Vision says, and it’s barely a whisper. Beneath her palm, his chest flickers from a solid wall of steel, to empty air, to flesh and bones. She feels his heartbeat, palpitating rapidly, and the warmth that spreads through the fabric. “But whatever it is, I know you can feel it. And you – every day, you make me want to be more human. You make me more human.”

Wanda puts her other hand on Vision’s face; he turns his head to press his lips against her palm. “You may not share these feelings, and that’s alright,” he murmurs. “I – I’d be honored to spend the rest of my days with you if only just as your friend. Just to see you and speak with you, learn from you. That would be enough.”

She exhales; the tastes start to stream out. “But I don’t want that.”

Vision flinches, but his face quickly falls into a blank, emotionless mask. He lets go of her fingers. “Alright. I understand.”

“No – Viz-”

There’s an easier way to communicate. Wanda puts both of her hands on his face now and climbs on top of him; when he wraps one arm around her reflexively, she leans down to breathe these tastes directly onto his lips.

Wanda would have guessed that Vision would be a terrible kisser, but he proves her wrong one more time. Vision’s lips are warm, soft; he moves them ever so gently against hers, and when he finally understands, it tastes like lightning. 

Vision gasps and suddenly his face is cold as ice. The vibranium hums underneath her fingers and turns warm again, then warmer, hot enough to burn. Wanda doesn’t stop, and the taste of his tongue is sweet and ashy. Like smoke.

She puts one hand behind his neck and pulls him down, tangling their legs together. “What is it you feel?” Vision asks. She reaches towards his thoughts; there is no resistance, only trust, acceptance. _You, you, you, you_. “What do you feel?”

Wanda smiles.

“You.”


End file.
